"Your plate?" he asked, putting his revolver close to Ian's head. And anxious though he was, Father Constantine could not help thinking the man must be a fool to imagine the safe big enough to hold Ruvno plate.
"In Warsaw." Ian lied; it was in Moscow. But Father Constantine would gladly have absolved him from murder, were his victim this subaltern.
"Whereabouts in Warsaw?"
"The Commercial Bank."
The looter turned to one of his men:
"Make a note of that," he commanded. The man obeyed, producing paper and pencil from a pocket.
"Where are your family jewels?" proceeded the subaltern.
"At the Commercial Bank." Their eyes met again. Ian's mirrored a soul too proud to lie. And yet they say that eyes cannot hide the truth.
"What are they worth?"
Ian did not answer and murder shone from the Prussian's evil face. The old priest's heart stood still. What, oh, what could he do to help? The sergeant scribbled hard, finished, licked his pencil and awaited further orders. The subaltern put his revolver a shade nearer Ian's head. Father Constantine knew he was playing to put the looters off the scent. For if he lost the jewels there would be nothing left to live upon. Ian thought of the moonlight labor on the Plock road, of Szmul's prying eyes, and feared greatly.